


Protection Detail

by nahco3



Category: Baseball RPF, Football RPF
Genre: Bodyguard, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:38:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David Villa and David Silva are an elite pair of bodyguards. They've been hired to protect Derek Jeter, star player for the New York Yankees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protection Detail

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted to my lj. thanks to ashirbaad for beta-ing.
> 
> this fic is pretty cracked out. there's also a little bit of violence.

Derek's gotten use to women grabbing his arm on the street, kids asking for autographs, and guys in bars being assholes. He doesn't like fighting, but he can take care of himself when it comes to that. Torre never made a big deal out of it, but Girardi has been pushing him for a while to hire somebody "just in case." Derek doesn't want to disrespect him, so he stalls with deliberate carefulness.

A few weeks after they win the World Series, Girardi calls. Derek's sitting on his couch watching football highlights, in a t-shirt and sweatpants, drinking coffee with cream in it. (His trainer is going to kill him but it's been a long season, he deserves a break.)

"Jeter, where are you?"

"My apartment," Derek replies, a little thrown off. "In New York?"

"Your new body guard is on his way over."

"Sir - "

Girardi doesn't even give him a chance to start. "I don't care how big you think your balls are, Jeter. I got a call this morning from Brian Cashman - who is my fucking boss by the way - asking me why I'm letting a three hundred million dollar asset waltz around New York fucking City when there are people with guns who want to kill him. And I said, I don't know, maybe because he's a fucking idiot who thinks he can take care of himself."

Derek debates explaining - I'm not Alex, I don't need a posse everywhere I go, really - but figures it isn't worth the trouble. He doesn't feel like fighting Girardi on this, especially not if Cashman's gotten involved.

"Yes sir," he says, "I have a bodyguard now, and I promise I'll think twice before I walk down any dark allies filled with Red Sox fans carrying assault rifles."

"Cute, Jeter. Just be careful. You know what you are to the team. And watch what you eat."

Derek takes a large sip of his sweet and creamy coffee, then another. "Of course sir." Maybe he'll go get doughnuts later - the kind with sprinkles and cream filling. He can take his bodyguard with him.

He lets Girardi hang up on him, and goes back to watching TV.

A few minutes later, the doorman buzzes him. "Two men for you, Mr. Jeter. They say Mr. Girardi sent them."

Derek sighs. Just what he needs - not one, but two burly ex-Marines to follow him everywhere he goes. "Send them up."

There's a knock at the door and Derek pulls himself off the couch reluctantly. He opens the door and blinks. There are two men, but both of them about a head shorter than him. One of them's wearing black sunglasses despite the fact that he's inside, a black suit jacket and a white collared shirt with the top button undone. He has a black goatee. The other one's a shade shorter and clean shaven. He has a messenger bag over one shoulder.

"Derek Jeter?" goatee man asks.

Derek offers his right hand to the man. "Pleased to meet you, - "

"David Villa," the man supplies, shaking his hand. "And this is David Silva." He nods to the other man, who smiles shyly. "We're your protection detail." No sooner than Derek's released his hand, goatee man - Villa - is inside Derek's apartment, surveying his living room with a frown.

It turns out Villa doesn't like that Derek's apartment has windows, doors or a ventilation system. Apparently, it's a miracle that Derek's survived this long without being shot, kidnapped or poisoned. Derek sits in his living room, watching Villa glare at his fireplace, because apparently Santa is also serious threat to his existence, while the second David follows him like a shadow with a Blackberry.

Eventually, Derek can't take it anymore. "Are either of you hungry?" he asks, stretching lazily. "Because I was thinking about getting doughnuts." Villa snorts, and David Silva gives him a shy smile, which is all the confirmation he needs.

At Derek's car, Villa forcibly blocks Derek's way to the driver's seat. Derek's surprised by how strong he is.

"You don't drive," Villa tells him shortly, and takes Derek's keys from his hands. "Get in the back." David Silva opens the door for him and smiles again.

"Is he always like this?" Derek asks him.

David blushes. "He can be a little bossy." Villa shots David a dark look, and David turns redder. "But once you get used to it, it's kind of nice." Derek has a hard time believing that.

So Derek gives directions from the back seat. It turns out that Villa drives like he's being followed, with a ruthlessness that impresses Derek and scares the shit out of him about equally.

"I didn't know Cashman was paying you to kill me," Derek mutters under his breath. David, sitting next to him, gives a little laugh. "Don't worry, he's a really good driver. He only crashes when he's supposed to." This comforts Derek not at all.

They arrive at doughnut shop, amazingly enough, in one piece. The girl behind the counter looks at him, wide-eyed. He smiles at her.

"A dozen assorted please," he asks. She nods timidly, turns around and then turns back.

"Can I take a picture with you?" she blushes. "You're like, my favorite Yankee ever."

Derek smiles. "Sure. Hey, David, can you take a picture for us?"

Both of them turn to him. Then David Silva takes the girl's phone and motions to the girl to come around the counter. He poses both of them as Derek talks to the girl. ("My father is not going to believe this. He is going to be so jealous." "Should I sign something for him?") The other David, Villa, leans against the counter, displaying both disapproval and disinterest.

He waits until they're back in Derek's car, with Derek safely in the back seat, before he starts his lecture.

"You aren't stupid, are you?" Villa asks, then continues without waiting for Derek's reply. Derek doesn't bother to mention he got into the University of Michigan, and not just for baseball either. "I'll use small words for you. The Inter gang - you've heard of them at least? - want to kidnap you. Brian Cashman -"

Ok, so maybe Derek's a little sick of Cashman getting invoked. "- Cashman figures it's more cost-effective to hire you guys to follow me everywhere than pay my ransom, I get it. So I'm not allowed to drive or take pictures with fans. Is there anything I can do?"

Villa accelerates particularly brutally. "Stop talking to me?"

Yeah, Derek thinks, I could do that. He turns to David. "So how'd you get to be a bodyguard?" he asks. He sees Villa's hands clench tighter on the steering wheel and smiles.

They actually settle into a pleasant sort of domesticity, to everyone's surprise. Derek orders take out (and makes Villa go pick it up - there are perks to this whole body guard thing) and they sit in his living room, watching football, most nights. Predictably, Villa complains, but Derek thinks he secretly appreciates the senseless violence. Derek goes to bed discretely early and sleeps with his iPod on.

"You know, you don't have to pretend to sleep on the sofa," Derek says to David Silva one morning at breakfast.

Silva stutters into his orange juice, "You know? Oh shit you know. And, and," he pauses, "you're ok with it?"

"For body guards, you guys aren't very subtle." Derek takes a bite out of his bagel. "And as long as I don't have to wash the sheets, yeah, I'm ok with it."

Silva puts down his glass and fixes his dark eyes on Derek's face. He looks worn down, old, and when Derek makes eye contact, Silva looks down at the table. He traces on the table absently, sketching out schematics and portraits.

"David wasn't sure how you would react, but I thought..." he trails off, and looks up at Derek, torn between cynicism and hope.

"I think you're a good couple," Derek says, more sincerely than he means to, because he does thinks so, and because he feels for the kid. Silva sort of blushes and looks down at his hands again, and Derek finishes his bagel. Villa swaggers in when Derek's putting his dishes in the dishwasher and leans against the counter. Silva's still sitting at the breakfast table, working on something on his laptop.

"So what am I not doing today?" Derek asks Villa. "Playing golf? Driving my own cars?"

Villa snorts and tosses his Blackberry to Silva, who catches it one-handed. "I got an email from Mori," he says, ignoring Derek. "He thinks you should be monitoring..."

"...withdrawals from Mourinho's offshore accounts, I know." Silva pushes his hair out of his eyes and glares at the phone's screen. He abruptly turns back to his computer and begins typing. "Looks like he's trying to transfer the funds to an account here in the US," he says, after a moment.

"Got a name?" Villa asks, moving over to stand just behind Silva. He rests his hand on Silva's shoulder and stares down at the screen.

Good move Villa, Derek thinks. Very subtle.

"Um, the account's registered to a 'Tess Tickle.'" Silva pauses delicately and Derek tries very hard not to laugh.

"Ibrahimović, then," Villa says, dryly.

"I'll keep an eye on all his known aliases," Silva says. "Matteratzi too?"

Derek knows where this conversation is going, judging from the way Villa's hands are now both resting on Silva's shoulders and Silva's looking up at him like he's the only thing in the world. So Derek grabs his phone and heads to the living room, slumping on the couch and turning the tv up just enough to give them some privacy.

Villa drives them out to Jersey the next day, so Derek can see his grandparents. Villa parks the car outside the house and unbuckles his seat belt, but Derek shakes his head.

"Take the afternoon off," he tells them both. Villa makes an exasperated noise in the back of his throat and rolls his eyes, and Silva lets out a little sigh.

"We really can't..." he begins, and Derek knows that Cashman is paying them something ridiculous, and that men with guns are out to get him. But Derek doesn't know how many visits he has left with both his grandparents, and he's not going to let Villa's glares or Silva's quiet expressions of concern get in the way of enjoying the time he has.

"Stay in the car outside, then," he says, like he's talking to the press, polite but completely serious. He shuts the car door behind him before they can argue.

It's good to see his grandparents again, now that the insanity of the season has passed. Nana wants to know if he's seeing anyone special, and when she's disappointed in that regard, wants to know everything he knows about his sister's new boyfriend, which isn't much. Pops wants to talk to him about baseball, of course, which is something Derek is more than happy to do. His phone buzzes twice, a text from Villa and, an hour later, one from Silva. He can imagine what they say easily enough, so he doesn't bother reading them.

It's dark before he heads out. The car hasn't moved, and the passenger door is unlocked. It isn't until he's slid himself inside and buckled in that he realizes something is wrong.

The man sitting in the driver's seat isn't Villa. And he's pointing a gun at Derek's head.

"Take everything out of your pockets," the man says. His accent sounds Eastern European, but his meaning is clear enough. Derek complies, pulling his phone, wallet and key ring out of his pockets.

The man makes a slight movement with the gun, pointing toward the back seat. Derek turns, and sees a second man sitting there. He also has a gun. Villa is splayed across the other two seats, unconscious. One of his arms is clearly broken, its angle horribly wrong. The upholstery is stained dark, oh god that's Villa's blood, Derek thinks, and nearly throws up.

"Put your things down where I can see them." Derek does, placing them in a cup holder.

"Now," the man says, "keep your hands on your legs and do not move. If you do, Marco will kill your friend." He rests his gun in his lap and starts to drive.

Derek puts his hands in his own lap, as sedately as possible. His chest is tight and he's sick with fear. Silva, where the fuck is Silva? Villa would die before letting anything happen to that kid. Shit, what if Villa is dead and they're just bluffing. Derek struggles to breath around the constriction in his chest. Then Villa lets out a soft moan, and Derek doesn't think he's ever been more relieved in his life.

He wants to talk, ask Villa if he's ok (fucking stupid question, Derek, obviously he's not ok, his arm is broken and he's bleeding out in the back seat of your car while you're getting kidnapped, and his boyfriend is probably dead in a ditch somewhere) but doesn't, since he's afraid that will piss off the driver. Instead, he tries to figure out where they're going, which isn't easy since it's dark out, and they're driving on empty roads. Derek can see trees, and that's really all. They could be in New Jersey still, or Pennsylvania or back in New York.

Eventually they turn down a dirt road that's practically invisible. Each bump they hit makes Villa inhale sharply and Derek bites the inside of his lip and clenches his jaw tight.

The car stops outside a deserted-looking house. "Don't move," the driver tells Derek, before he turns to the back seat. "Marco, get him inside and tied up." The second man, Marco, pulls Villa toward him, opens the car door and slings Villa over his shoulder. Villa lets out a whimper and Derek tenses again. The back of his shirt is covered in blood. The driver points his gun at Derek. "Out of the car."

The driver directs Derek into the house wordlessly, his gun pointed at Derek's back. The darkness inside is nearly total, Derek stumbles down a hallway into a shut door. He pauses, and the driver opens it. Standing next to him, Derek notices he's a little taller than Derek himself, and that his hair curls around the back of his neck. For the first time, he seriously considers fighting back, although he knows it's hopeless. Villa's lapsed into silence, and in the dark Derek can't even tell if he's still breathing. The door opens, and the light streaming into the hallway makes Derek blink. He instinctively raises a hand to shield his eyes. The driver, misinterpreting the action, slams him into the wall. Derek's head snaps back into the wall, and his vision spins.

"Don't even think about it," the driver says, his voice perfectly level. Derek gulps, and nods as best he can. One of the driver's hands is holding him against the wall, the other is pointing the gun at his head.

Marco says something Derek doesn't understand, and the driver responds. Derek belatedly realizes it's because they're speaking something that sounds likes Italian, and then the driver's choking him. He pushes back, but it's too late, and he fades into unconsciousness.

He comes to fighting his restraints. He's in a chair, and his wrists and ankles have been ducktaped to its arms and legs. He sees Villa, sitting opposite him, similarly restrained. Villa's head is down, and Derek can't tell if he's conscious or not, until he speaks.

"Don't give them anything," Villa says, each word sounding like it's cost him something irreplaceable.

Derek starts to say something, he doesn't know what, but Villa cuts him off. "They're not going to leave us alive. They didn't even try to hide their faces." Villa shakes his head savagely. "I fucked up." He looks up and meets Derek's eyes. He's terrifyingly pale. "Don't give them anything," he repeats.

"What about Silva?" Derek asks, his through his rising panic.

Villa shakes his head again. "Don't," he says, voice breaking with pain and anger. And then the door opens and the men walk back in.

"Mr. Jeter," the driver says, "I'll make this brief." He pulls Derek's cell phone out of his pocket. "You're going to call your bank and transfer all the money in your account to an account I will designate for you. After you do this, I will call Mr. Cashman and begin negotiating your ransom."

Derek swallows. "What about Villa?"

The driver smirks at Derek. "Thank you for reminding me." Derek notices the gun in his hand.

"I won't do anything if you kill him," Derek says, doing his best to meet the man's eyes. He's so far past panicking he's almost starting to feel calm again.

Villa, typically, rolls his eyes, but refrains from saying anything particularly sarcastic. The driver walks over to Villa and puts the gun to his head. "I really think you will, Mr. Jeter."

There's a dull thump, and they all turn. Marco is lying on the floor, either unconscious or dead. David Silva is standing over him, looking angry. Derek grins, despite himself. The driver looks stunned; Villa looks as smugly satisfied as anyone bleeding to death can.

"Put the gun down, Zlatan," David says, calmly.

Zlatan recovers from his surprise quickly and moves to point the gun at Derek. "I would have liked to get the money and kill your boyfriend first, Silva," he says, conversationally, "but since you're here, I'll just skip to the end." Derek looks up at the barrel of the gun and bites his lip to keep from begging for mercy. It seems unlikely he'll get any at this point.

It happens so fast Derek barely registers it - David's running toward Zlatan, and then he's between Zlatan and Derek, breaking Zlatan's arm and tossing the gun into a corner. Zlatan tries some sort of karate kick, but David ducks and suddenly Zlatan's sprawled on the floor. David bends down next to Zlatan. "Don't do that again," David tells him, and then does something that Derek suspects breaks Zlatan's nose, in addition to knocking him unconscious.

David stands, dusting his hands off, a knife appearing in his hand. He cuts Derek free, then moves to free Villa.

"Thank you," Derek says, honestly not sure what else to say. Silva blushes, and keeps working. "It was nothing."

"No, that was definitely something," Derek says, stretching his wrists. "I always assumed Villa was the ninja."

Silva laughs, although he's still blushing. "He's incredible, really." David finishes cutting the duck tape and stands. "David, you should show Derek -"

Villa isn't moving, and his face is white. "Fuck," Silva says, sharply. "Go outside and get the medic." Derek doesn't ask any of the questions he's tempted to - the medic? how did you get here, anyway? why aren't you dead? - and goes.

Several dangerous-looking men are standing outside. One of them is holding a gun the size of a baseball bat.

"David needs a medic," Derek announces, figuring that if they want him dead it's already too late. One of the men, presumably the medic, since he's less heavily armed than the others, hurries into the building. Two other men follow, one carrying a stretcher. An awkward minute later - the man with the gun is watching Derek like he's looking for an excuse to shot - David walks out with the medic. Between them, they're carrying Villa in the stretcher.

"Get in the car," David tells Derek, and there's nothing deferential or unsure about him now. "We're going to the hospital."

At the hospital, a doctor pokes at Derek for a bit and shines a light in his eyes. They tell him he's got a mild concussion and there might be some bruising. Derek could care less, he's gotten worse during games. Since his doctor won't tell him anything about Villa, Derek goes looking.

He finds Silva sitting outside a room, fiddling with his Blackberry. He sits down next to him.

"He's going to be ok," David says, quietly, and Derek shuts his eyes for a second in relief. "He lost a lot of blood, but he's going to be ok." David shakes his head, once. "I should have gotten there sooner."

"You saved both our lives," Derek points out. "I mean, you had me worried for a while, and next time, maybe you could somehow let me know you weren't dead, but overall, I would say you did a respectable job."

David laughs a little shakily. Derek thinks he's been crying. "Glad you think so," he says, leaning his head against Derek's shoulder. Derek wraps his arm around David's shoulders, and they wait like that for the doctors to come out.

Derek drives them all home from the hospital. In the rear view mirror, he can see Villa leaning his head on Silva's shoulder, his eyes closed shut with exhaustion. Derek can see Silva's interlaced their fingers, and that Villa's other hand is clutching a gun like it's a teddy bear. Derek looks back at the road, gripping the wheel a little tighter. He wishes he had something to hold onto, a gun, a hand, a baseball bat. Then he sees Silva's eyes in the rear view, flashing flint black and dangerous. Derek smiles despite himself, and lets the muscles in his back relax.

Villa spends less than a day resting in Derek's guest bedroom before he's back to stalking around the apartment. Silva's clearly annoyed, and after unsuccessfully trying to drug Villa's coffee to get him to relax, he starts pouting. Villa reluctantly complies, and spends the next week lying on Derek couch, cleaning first his guns, and then his knives.

Silva sits next to him, carding one hand through Villa's hair, tracking weapons deals on his laptop. Derek's been relegated to a chair - he drinks beer and watches a Giants game.

"Why can't we watch real football?" Villa asks, and Derek grins.

"Hey, Silva likes it."

Silva doesn't look up from his laptop. "Don't even think about bringing me into this."

Villa rolls his eyes. "I should knife you," he says, but he's smiling.

Girardi calls not long after that.

"I'm firing your body guard."

"Actually, there's two of them," Derek says, mildly.

"Whatever. I'm firing both of them."

Derek bites the inside of his lips. "Sir, I don't really think that's a good idea."

"Jeter?"

Derek pauses. He doesn't know how to tell Girardi that he hasn't stopped having nightmares about that night since he got back from the hospital, that he only feels safe when he has at least one well-armed Spaniard standing next to him. That he'll miss having someone to complain to and tease. So instead he says -

"Seriously, sir, there are a lot of Red Sox fans walking around the streets of New York with uzis."

"Jeter..."

"And Mets fans. Can't be too careful with a three hundred million dollar asset, that's what Cashman's always said."

Girardi mumbles something under his breath. "Fine Jeter, keep your bodyguards. I'll see you at spring training. And don't gain weight!"

Derek hangs up and grabs his wallet and keys off the counter.

"Hey Davids? How do you feel about doughnuts?"


End file.
